Reality is Different Ch. 04

That, and passing on the notion to him, if it hasn't crossed his mind already. A mischievous and nervous grin tugs faintly at my lips as I reflect on that, on the molecule of cleverness that I feel in the arrangement. God knows I couldn't bring it up myself. No way to casually mention the concept of incestuous desire to your father without it having...implications. Particularly when you're me, when he's him, when we know each other like we do. But if it's in a movie, something that's otherwise routine, something I didn't even pick out for myself - well, it doesn't carry quite the same suggestion. While hopefully still sparking an awareness in his mind, making him consider the idea of the other sorts of love that a father and his little girl could share. Planting in his consciousness a seed of what I've felt, to see if anything takes root.

Finding the proper movie wasn't easy, either. I could hardly think of anything that touched upon the subject without utterly reviling it, at least in terms of mainstream publications. Game of Thrones was one candidate that came to mind, even if it's not a movie - but that was with a brother and a sister, not really the same thing. And I did recall a scene in Ferris Bueller, where the title character gets his girlfriend out of school by masquerading as her father. The kiss they give each other afterward was witnessed from a distance by the principal, who mutters to himself that they must have that kind of a relationship...and how ridiculous that even this can wake a pleasant little tingle at the center of my chest, the bare suggestion that there's something real enough in this for recognition, anything that can be known and spoken by a certain tone of voice. But it's not enough for what I wanted, not as a solitary joke, a single scene, something without lasting meaning. I needed something deeper, tied into the plot, something that you'd have to really recognize, to dwell upon, if you're going to understand what's going on. And sadly, a google search for "movies with father-daughter incest" didn't turn up anything I found particularly helpful.

Martin, though, had a suggestion. "Snow White." Not the disney movie - a live-action film that drew from the same folktales, made a lot more recently. More mature than the cartoon, adult. In this one, there's a stronger motivation for the 'wicked' stepmother's enmity, beyond the girl's enviable beauty, beyond even the fact that her initial overtures of friendship towards her new stepdaughter are stridently rebuffed. All that could be forgiven, maybe. But as adulthood looms, Snow White is more and more the image of her departed mother, and no one who observes can miss the shadow of desire that creeps into her father's manner, reaching out to grasp again the woman that he lost. A threat that her stepmother cannot possibly ignore.

Not that it turns out to be about that, really, when I skimmed through the thing, read a synopsis of the plot online. The prince that wakes her from her sleep doesn't turn out to be her dad - I couldn't use the movie if it were. It'd be much too obvious, provoke too many questions as to exactly how and why I'd picked it out. But the suggestion is still there, a subtle element, an assertion in the background of the plot. A man can feel desire for his daughter and still not be a monster. Can lust for her, even as he loves her. Something for my own Daddy to reflect upon, as I sit there curled up close against him, my body hidden only by a few thin scraps of cloth. So easily removed, if he should get the urge.

That's the trick right now. How few, how thin I can truly hope to make those scraps, and still muster up the nerve to head downstairs to face him. Nightclothes - I'll be headed up to bed, after the movie. That's my reason, my excuse. My shoes removed, my jeans slipped off, tossed to crumple in the hamper by my bed. I've swapped out the dress that I was wearing for a faded yellow nightshirt, long enough to reach my hips. Older, this one, scattered here and there with holes, with fraying seams, the cotton fabric stretched and thin with all its years of use. I had it at the bottom of a drawer, with some other clothes I really ought to throw away. Though right now, looking myself over in the mirror, I'm rather glad I didn't.

Not that I'm a quarter of the sexpot girls the stories talk about, of course, their busty bodies toned and perfect, eager nymphs just begging for their Daddy's touch. But it does do something kind of nice for me, I think. I hope. The threadbare fabric clinging slightly to such curves as I possess, hinting at what lies beneath. Brightly-colored socks with horizontal stripes, rising up to just beneath my knees, not so different from the ones I've seen in several of the videos on his computer. Innocently tempting. Maybe. If that isn't wishful thinking. The large shirt even makes me look a trifle smaller, younger. More like a girl who might still climb adoringly into her father's lap, snuggle up to be enfolded in his arms, who-

"Hey, you get lost up there or what?" My dad's voice echoes upward from the bottom of the stairs, tolerant exasperation kicking me from my reflection.

Right. "Just a second!" I'm almost ready, anyway. Or as ready as I'm going to be. I played a little with the thought of heading down without my panties, the way the stories sometimes have it, of sitting opposite from him upon the couch so that he could see beneath my shirt, between my legs, when they just happen to uncross...but I know I couldn't really do it. It's just another little dream, something to arouse the sparkle of excitement in my stomach, the flush of warmth upon my cheeks, the subtle scratching of my swollen nipples at the cushion of my bra.

That's all that's really left. My bra. I do sleep without it sometimes, after all. Even if I treat it otherwise about the same as underwear, something that absolutely must be on before I'd think to leave my room. But today, tonight...there's a slightly nervous flutter to my heartbeat as I reach behind my back to undo the simple clasp, to pull off my brassiere and toss it on my chest of drawers. An anxious thrill that pulses only stronger in my veins as I take in the blatancy of the effect, how obvious it is that I have nothing on beneath my shirt. Jesus. My eager nipples stand like soldiers at attention, outlined plainly underneath the faded cloth, a pair of little pebbles sitting proud and obstinate atop my breasts. Brazen, bold. Almost obscene.

He would see it, if I go downstairs like this. See them. See me. The thought is close to terrifying, despite how obvious it is. Of course he would. That's the point, that's why I'm even doing this. It's what I planned for - the prospect seeming infinitely simpler when I was only laying on my bed, thinking how the evening ought to go. More complicated now that it's before me, now that I'm about to follow through. The horrified protest of modesty, of propriety, inhibition, anything you want to call the walls we have inside ourselves, the fears that hold you back when you can't even say what you're afraid of. He'll see me. My heartbeat is a rapid patter in my ears, breathless, worried, the subtle agony of nerves...but there's a shiver of excitement to it, too. A tiny, wild part of me that doesn't care how crazy all this is, that revels in the madness of it, shrugs aside how mortified I know I'd feel to have my father see what I keep hidden. A part of me I have to consciously embrace, cling to like a life preserver as I grab the movie off the desk and force myself to step into the hall.

Dad's already waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs. A little back, off to the side, leaning lightly on the wall. Not facing my direction, at least not at the moment - an impulse bubbles up inside to run away, to rush back to my room and put on all my clothes again before he has a chance to see me. An urge I manage to suppress, if only just. But the anxiety that gave birth to it is still inside of me as I take my first few steps downstairs, as they softly creak beneath my weight, calling up my father's eye. Letting him take in the state of my attire. And when I see that bushy eyebrow lift a trifle, when I see the subtle curl of surprise upon his lips, I can't keep myself from blurting out the excuse that I had planned, invoking it like a protective charm before he's even said a word.

"I thought I'd go to bed right afterward. Um, after the movie." Hesitating for a moment on the stairs, before I realize that only makes things worse. Casual. It's all supposed to come across as casual, comfortable, unthought. Not that you'd know it, from the way my heart is lodged inside my throat. "So I was just, I was just getting ready."

Does he pause before he answers? Just so slight, uncertain, a note of questioning still sitting in his gaze...I don't know. I can't be sure. "All right." Slightly nodding. His voice at least is normal, earnest. Or near enough to it that I can't hear the difference, through the thumping of my pulse. A bit of his familiar, gentle humor creeping quiet to his tone as he continues. "'bout time you got a decent night's sleep, anyway. That the movie?"

I could say the question is a little silly, pointless. Not much else the disk I hold is going to be. But he can be forgiving for inquiring, maybe, given how I'm holding it. The plastic case is raised up somewhat awkwardly in front of me, both hands clutching at its corners so that my forearms at least are partially concealing my chest from view. Covering myself, half-unconsciously - though recognizing that I'm doing it doesn't make me stop. Just scurry quickly down the stairs, handing off the DVD in passing to my father without giving him too good a look. "Yeah. Can you put it in for me? I want to get another drink." Already grabbing up my glass from where I left it on the table - I need another drink. The liquid courage that I downed at dinner isn't quite up to the task before me now. It could use some reinforcement.

"Sure thing." I can hear him moving in the living room, turning on equipment as I open up the fridge to pour myself another glass of wine. "You know, I could have sworn we already had it. Snow White. On VHS, at least. And god knows where it's gotten to; that cupboard is a mess."

"It's a different movie." I raise my voice to answer. The acoustics from the kitchen are always terrible. Not surprised to hear him call back with a 'What?' - I have to try again, a little louder. "It's a different movie! Not the animated one. Just has the same name."

"Ah. Well, that makes a bit more sense, I suppose." His response returns beside the quiet, high-pitched buzzing of the television kicking into action; I let it go unanswered, focused on the pouring of my glass. Focused on settling my mind, as well, as cold air from the refrigerator breezes almost sharp across my heated cheeks. I don't have to be so nervous with all this. It's hardly like this is the first time he's seen me go without a bra. I don't specifically remember when he would have, recently, but I'm sure there's been occasions. Certainly when I was younger, though, before my body finally filled out a bit, when all I ever felt the need to wear was sometimes something with a padded cup...and he's seen me in my bathing suit, which is practically the same as this, almost, in terms of what it shows. The only difference now is what I bring to it. The purpose, the intent. If he doesn't feel the way I do, there isn't any reason he should think it's strange.

That's what Martin said, at least. Early on, one of his pieces of advice - I needn't really be afraid of flirting with my father, even quite overtly, because a man who doesn't harbor an attraction for his daughter will come up with almost any other explanation before he would accept she's really trying to entice him. That being blatantly suggestive can be the quickest, safest course...I'm not particularly certain I believe it. I mean, maybe there's some element of that, but if I stripped down suddenly in front of him, I'm pretty sure he'd figure out that something wasn't right, even if he doesn't have a secret hankering for me. And even if it is true, even if he wouldn't actually guess the reason why, I don't think I'd want to set him wondering. Wouldn't want him asking questions that I couldn't answer.

Still, though. It does give me a bit of leeway, a little room to toe the line. If I have two reasons for myself, as well, something to fall back upon, something to believe. If I dressed (or if I undressed) like this not just to try for his attention, but because I am getting ready for bed. If I snuggled up against him on the couch because I love him, he's my dad, because I just like being next to him. It's not a lie that way, not a mystery. There's nothing left unanswered if he wonders why I'm doing this or that, if he doesn't want to think that it's because I'm having unchaste thoughts of him, impossible desires. I'm just a girl who adores her Daddy. An innocent affection - but so very, very strong.

It isn't quite a revelation. The perspective, the idea. I've been hiding for a while now in ambiguities like that, double meanings, doubled thoughts, emotions. But it does restore my confidence somewhat to lay it out so plainly in my mind, to better understand the camouflage I wear. A little more, as well, to take a sip of wine, the warmth I feel as it settles in my stomach more psychological than real. Grabbing from the fridge a can of beer for him before I swing the door closed with my hip, heading out again into the living room.

He's in there waiting for me, sitting stretched out on the couch, one hand holding the remote control. A neutral look upon his face, slightly tired, drawn - but his expression slides into a smile as he catches sight of my approach, a grin that flashes wide and white. Handsome. Even with his thinning hair, his beginnings of a belly, the rumpled work shirt that he wears. Or maybe it's because of them. Not everyone would see it, but I do. I do. An eager tingle in the space beneath my stomach when I look at him, more excitement now than nerves. An itch, a yearning. Foolish. Mad.

"Another glass of wine, eh?" He shakes his head a little, tolerant, amused. "Not too shabby for a girl who doesn't drink."

"I'm getting used to it, I think." A playful moue as I approach, pretending at defensiveness. "It helps me get to sleep." Both statements true - though the latter part especially is something that I want to emphasize to him. How fast asleep I'll be, how unaware, unresistant to anything that he might try... "You don't mind, do you?"

"Nah," he gestures errant with his hand, dismissive. "Not as long as you're not going overboard with the stuff. Not if you're safe at home, where I can keep an eye on you." Humor flashes in his gaze, flitting over to the can I carry in my other hand. "Gotta warn you, though, beer and wine together aren't that great a combination."

"Funny." I roll my eyes at him, affectionate, stick out my tongue a little...but my heartbeat is a rapid patter, pulling close before him. Self-conscious, self-aware. I have to force myself to move the way I should, the way that I intended, bending over at the waist a bit to offer him the beer. Lowering my bosom so it's level with his gaze. "It's for you."

The world doesn't hold its breath. Not quite. I do, though, the feeling of it straining in my chest, watching him intently as he reaches out to take the metal can out of my grasp, as his eyes hop from my face to help. They hover there a fraction of a second as he takes it in his hand...and then I see them flicker over to my breast, see his pupils slightly shift as they refocus. Looking at me. He is! Abruptly my already-quickened pulse is like a hummingbird's, like I've been running at an all-out sprint. He's looking at my bosom, at my breasts, at my nipples poking eager and excited at the faded yellow cotton, and the realization, the reality of it fills me with a sudden spark of terror and exhilaration that could hardly be much stronger if he had actually reached out to touch me, to grab me with his hand.

It only lasts a moment. Or even less than that, the briefest little pause there on my chest before his gaze flits quickly up again into my features, his expression still the same. Mostly the same. Not clearly guilty, anyway, or hard with fierce desire, like the kind the stories talk about. And what it means...I don't even know, I don't. I don't know what his intentions were, his thoughts, if he was looking there from some instinctive interest or because it was unusual, the way that I appeared to him tonight, or god knows what other reason for the glance there could have been, if it wasn't just some idle, thoughtless shifting of his gaze. I can't say even if it's really new, if he's ever looked at me like that before - so short and slight a glimpse, I could easily have missed it this time, if I hadn't watched so close. But he looked, he did, it wasn't my imagination, and that alone arouses such a storm of tangled feeling in my heart, eager jubilation spiked with nerves, sharp enough to make me almost gasp. Close to manic, how they mingle with each other, if only for this little instant - I feel like I could do anything, like I could jump right now into his lap, like I could throw my arms around his chest and cover him with mad, devoted kisses, repay this tiny spark of maybe interest with all the passion I can muster.

I don't, of course. I still have sense enough for that. But my expression is already trending towards a gleeful, foolish smile by the time he nods at me, acknowledging the drink. "Thanks." I think that I might even hear a hint of strain inside his voice. A touch. Perhaps... "I'm ah. Well. You ready to start the movie?"

"Of course." The words hum brightly from my throat as I spin eagerly around to slide onto the couch beside him, pressing close. Not a moment's hesitation now before I lean in against his side, halfway commandeer his shoulder for a pillow. My free arm sneaking round to intertwine with his, feeling an electric satisfaction in this contact with his body as he presses play on the remote and the film's beginning logos start to splash upon the screen. As I settle in to watch a movie with my Daddy, close and warm and cozy, bathing in the thrill that lingers of his brief and subtle glance.

---

It's supposedly a decent movie, based on internet reviews. Good performances, an interesting take on the old fable. In other circumstances, I'd likely want to watch it for itself. But at the moment, I can hardly pay attention to the screen. I hardly want to, really, focusing instead upon the feeling of the scene that we have here, the two of us, nestled soft together as the evening dims to night. I'm so aware of him right now, so conscious of his presence at my side, or mine at his. It's hard to even put it into words, the way it feels. Fear and hope, together with each other. A twisting of my stomach, anxiously excited, an eager tingle just beneath the skin, pins and needles anywhere there's contact with his body. Anywhere he's close to me. Like how I felt with my first crush, a million years ago. A boy in middle school, with sandy hair and gorgeous eyes - I never even spoke to him, not more than once or twice, but I often tried to sit one table off from him at lunch, to look in his direction when I thought he wasn't looking back. Seeking out that breathless tickle that I felt inside my chest, just knowing he was near. Imagining how it would feel, if he kissed me.

It's the same thing now. Or stronger still, a pleasant aching in my stomach as I dwell on just how close my father is to me, on the recollection of his glance, played out endlessly inside my mind. Painting hunger in his eyes, in the memory of what I saw, pretending that his gaze was fierce with ravenous desire. If he kissed me now...god, I have to bite my lip to keep myself from squirming in my seat, from rubbing urgently my thighs against each other, seeking out the base, instinctive pleasure of that friction, touch. I can feel it, I can see it in my head. If his fingers held so strong behind my neck, guiding up my gaze to look at him as he stood looming over me, his familiar, rugged features drawing close, so close. The waver of my voice as I would ask him what he's doing, weak and fearful, trying just a single time to tell him 'no.' "Daddy, you can't..."